


well met

by arsenicjay



Series: consigliere [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Complicated Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 07:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10301411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenicjay/pseuds/arsenicjay
Summary: The cut on Akaashi’s cheek bleeds sluggishly.“Well, well,” a voice drawls, too close to his ear. “Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't Fukurodani’s centre piece.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly edited version of a fill from SASO 2016, Bonus Round 1. Served as inspiration for, and can be considered a extra scene from [a place of worship](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7600609).

The cut on Akaashi’s cheek bleeds sluggishly.

“Well, well,” a voice drawls, too close to his ear. “Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't Fukurodani’s centre piece.”

“Bokuto-san is the _kumicho_ of Fukurodani,” Akaashi corrects, breathing hard. The hotel corridor is empty and the thick vermillion carpet soaks up the sound of their voices. “Not me. I’m sorry to say you’re mistaken.”

“On first glance, perhaps.” The iron-grip digging into the back of his neck tightens, pressing his face against the thin wallpaper. “But that’s not quite true in practice, is it?”

Akaashi caught a glimpse of his captor just before being bodyslammed—dark, mussed hair, sharp cologne and a sharper, pale suit—enough to rouse his suspicions, but now he’s certain. “Kuroo-san,” he says, wetting his dry lips. “What business does Nekoma have in West Ginza?”

“That’s a secret,” Kuroo replies, and Akaashi can all but hear the amusement in his voice. Even then, there’s no slip in his focus; Kuroo is firm and heavy against his back. “The bigger question is, what business does Bokuto’s handler have skulking around the forty-third floor so far from his charge?”

Akaashi narrows his eyes. There are multiple parts of that questions that he should take offence to—he is not his _kumicho’s_ keeper, for one, and as far as he knows, Bokuto should still be traipsing through the grand ballroom on the third floor. But more telling is the off-handed detail—Kuroo has his own business to attend to here. Someone has made a poorly calculated risk, setting up two minor yakuza families in the same hotel. Even forty levels apart, the audacity of the idea strikes Akaashi as laughable.

“Please use the proper respect when addressing Bokuto-san,” he says instead, in a tone mild and level. He concentrates, mentally cataloguing his stock: one pistol, tucked into the holster under his left arm, two blades secured at his thigh and left forearm. Useless, while he’s pinned to the wall like this. “Even someone like you should—”

“Someone like me?”

Kuroo sounds offended, and Akaashi snorts quietly. “An unrepentant stray cat.”

“Ouch. That’s harsh, Akaashi-kun.” The pressure on the back of his neck eases for a split second; then his back slams into the wall and Kuroo’s hand is warm at the base of his throat. Kuroo tuts. “You’re not like Bokuto at all, are you?”

“I would like to think not.”

At this angle, Kuroo looms over him with a crooked smile and the barest hint of teeth. He seems surprised. “Pretty face,” he observes, and Akaashi doesn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing colour rise into his cheeks.

 _You have such a pretty face,_ he hears Bokuto’s voice breathe in the back of his mind, with a wicked gleam in his eye as he yanks Akaashi into one of the dusty guestrooms at Fukurodani’s headquarters—Akaashi shakes the memory out of his mind. Now, he focuses on keeping his expression tightly schooled as Kuroo traces the pads of his fingers over his mouth and drags an index finger over the seam of his lips, staring as if entranced. “Bokuto’s found himself quite a prize, doesn’t he?” he says, almost to himself.

When his hand lifts away, Akaashi replies, coldly, “I serve to be useful to Fukurodani.” He can still feel the ghosting touch, almost reminiscent, and he pushes that out of mind too.

“Fukurodani?” Kuroo murmurs. “Or Bokuto? Tell me, how many times has Bokuto asked you to call him _aniki_?”

Not for the first time tonight, Akaashi wonders if Bokuto has been keeping his own secrets from him. He’d tried to focus solely on the situation at hand—turning the tables on Kuroo at the soonest chance, incapacitating him and returning to the grand ballroom—but it’s difficult ignoring the signs. The light tone that Kuroo speaks with, sparking a tiny flame of familiarity—the vivid presence he emanates like a veritable coat. They ignite memories, brief flickers that rise and fade away too fast for Akaashi to grasp hold of beyond the fact that he has seen this all before, in someone far closer to home.

“As long as Bokuto is _kumicho_ of Fukurodani,” Akaashi says. He starts to ease his right arm out from where it’s wedged behind his back. “I serve him.”

“Stubborn,” Kuroo replies. He shifts his weight, a momentary slip, and Akaashi seizes his chance.

He curves under the instinctive swing of Kuroo’s arm, ducking out and landing a strike with his elbow into the back of Kuroo’s kidneys to buy a few precious seconds. By the time Kuroo rights himself and whirls around, Akaashi has drawn his pistol. He thumbs the hammer, and watches coolly as Kuroo shakes his head.

“Ease up,” Kuroo says, raising his hands. “Trust me when I say Bokuto won’t be happy to see you turned me into a bloodstain on the wall.”

 _What would you know about what makes Bokuto happy?_ Akaashi wants to ask, but that’s giving too much again. He stays silent, eventually lowers the gun, and adjusts his disheveled tie instead. “Keep to your own business,” he warns as he turns away.

Kuroo won’t get the jump on him again, Akaashi knows now; that encounter had been his idea of _playful_. Even then, he feels the eyes against his back, an intense stare that trails down his spine like a touch that barely grazes skin. But he strides to the fire exit, and doesn’t glance back.

Bokuto, he thinks grimly as he wipes the blood from his cheek, has some explaining to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism always welcome.


End file.
